Sleight Of Paw Part 36

He stopped in front of me. "Yes, or be sacrificed." He wiped his hand over his neck. "Do you know how hard and how long I've worked to make this place"-he gestured around the room, but I knew he meant the camp, not the s.p.a.ce we were in-"a reality?"

"I probably don't."

"No, you don't," he said. "There are so many kids who need a place like this. And everywhere I turned people got in my d.a.m.n way."

I nodded.

"This place is going to change lives. It's going to save lives." He pulled the chrome chair out from the desk and straddled it. "So that makes it worth it. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few."

Aristotle.

"Does it have to be that black-and-white?" I asked.

He laughed. It was a harsh sound in the almost-empty cabin. "You're one of those people who see shades of gray, aren't you, Kathleen?" His long, strong fingers were beating out a rhythm only he could hear on the chair back.

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly very dry. "Not always, but a lot of the time."

"That's what's wrong with the world; too many shades of gray and not enough black and white. Not enough clear decisions. Not enough absolutes." He shrugged, swung his leg over the chair and got up.

"I have to do what's best for the most people. I'm sorry about Ruby and Agatha. I'm sorry about Eric. Hey, I'm even a little sorry about you." He bent down and hauled me up by my elbow, yanking my arm up behind my back so hard that I whimpered as the pain shot from my elbow to my shoulder.

"Justin, what you doing?" I said, as he dragged me into the kitchen.

"I'm doing what I have to do."

There was a trapdoor in the kitchen floor. I hadn't noticed it.

Still holding my arm with one hand, he bent and lifted it. Crude wooden stairs disappeared down into the darkness. The hairs rose on the back of my neck and for a second the room whirled around me. Tight, dark places and I were not friends.

Justin patted the pockets of my coat and pulled out my cell phone. "I'm sorry, I can't let you keep this," he said. He dropped the phone and then stomped on it with the heel of his heavy boot. Then he pushed me on to the first step.

"Please . . . please don't put me down there," I stammered. "I . . . I . . . I'll help you with the police. I'll help you with Ruby. I don't . . . I don't like small s.p.a.ces. Please just don't put me down there!"

He studied my face, looking at me with something close to pity and regret. "You shouldn't have come out here. You really shouldn't. There are so many kids who need help."

He sighed. "I can't let you ruin that. I don't have a choice." He let go of my arm and at the same time gave me a shove. I tumbled down the stairs, instinctively holding Owen in the messenger bag close to my body.

The trapdoor slammed shut over my head.

And I couldn't breathe.

I was sprawled on the steps, about two-thirds of the way from the bottom, as far as I could guess. I couldn't tell for sure because it was so dark.

My chest was tight and my breath came in ragged gasps as my lungs tried to suck in air. There was a rus.h.i.+ng sound in my ears, as though I were trapped under the tumbling water of a waterfall.

Owen twisted in the bag and pushed his head out the top. He laid it against my chest, over my racing heart. I slid my hand up the bag and onto his fur. He kept his head against me, and slowly I could breathe again.

I was in a small, dark bas.e.m.e.nt but I wasn't alone. I had Owen. He was fierce, he was loyal and he had claws. I knew from past experience that when something bad happened Owen would fight back.

"We have to get out of here," I said. "I have to see if I can get the trapdoor open."

I worked my way up the stairs, step by step, b.u.mping from one riser to the next, holding Owen with one hand and feeling my way with the other.

A couple of steps from the top I stopped and reached over my head for the outline of the trap. "Okay we have to get you out of the bag." I said.

Owen started to pull himself up, and I remembered the flashlight. "We have a flashlight." I fished it out of the bag, held on to the cat and let the bag fall over the side of the steps. I turned on the light with my free hand.

Owen blinked his golden eyes at me. "We're going to get out of here," I said. He meowed softly. "I'm going to put you on the steps so I can use both hands on the trapdoor."

I set him on the step below me, shrugged out of my jacket, braced both feet on the wooden stair and pushed the trapdoor over my head with all my strength. The muscles in my neck and shoulder strained and sweat popped up along my hairline.

The hatch didn't move.

I dropped my arms, hung my head and caught my breath. And muttered a couple of swear words. Then I took a deep breath and tried it again. I leaned back and the edge of the step dug into my back as I pushed with everything I had.

It wasn't moving. My best guess was that Justin had latched or locked the trapdoor in some way.

I edged up another step and turned on the flashlight. The hatch was a solid piece of plywood and it fit flush into the hole. We weren't getting out that way.

My throat squeezed shut and the darkness began to blacken. Justin wasn't just holding me in the bas.e.m.e.nt. He'd left me there to die.

I pressed my head between my knees and put my hands over the back of my head. I wasn't going to die in this damp, dark bas.e.m.e.nt in the middle of nowhere. Neither was Owen.

I felt behind me for the papers I'd managed to get out of the envelope. They were still safely tucked in my waistband. And they were the only shot Harry had of finding his daughter.

"Okay, puss," I said. "We have to figure something else out."

I looked down at the stair below my feet. Owen was gone. He wasn't on any of the stairs below either.

"Owen, c'mon," I called. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I could see the steps went down to a dirt-floor cellar. I couldn't see the cat at all. In fact, nothing moved in my range of vision at all-both a bad thing and a good thing.

"Owen," I called again, leaning forward. This time I got a faint meow in return.

"Come back here."

He meowed again. That meant I was going to have to go get him.

I eased down a couple of stairs. My skin crawled as I concentrated on not looking at how close over my head the floor beams were.

The bas.e.m.e.nt smelled musty with a sweet, fetid odor, like something had started to rot. I made myself think of rotting apples or rotting potatoes with dark mold and soft white patches. I didn't let myself think of all the other things that might be decomposing down there.

I worked my way to the bottom. The dirt floor was cold even through my heavy socks.

"Owen, where are you?" He meowed from the back wall of the cellar. "You had to pick a spot over there," I said as I made my way over the cold ground. "What are you doing? Did you find some way out of here?"

I kept talking because there were things I didn't want to chance hearing, and as long as I was talking, I wasn't screaming. And there was no way that could be bad.

I kept my eyes fixed on where I'd heard the cat's meow. I didn't look at any of the boxes or discarded piles of junk. If I didn't look at it, it couldn't scare me.

Owen was sitting on a discarded metal bedspring, probably from an old bunk bed. "This is what you wanted me to see? Why?" He pulled at one of the coiled metal springs with a paw. I could feel tendrils of panic creeping up the base of my skull.

I took a couple of deep breaths. "I'm going to have to drag this over to the stairs," I said. "You think we need it, okay with me."

The spring framework wasn't as heavy as I'd thought. It wasn't that difficult to pull it over to the bottom of the steps, where I felt more secure-relatively speaking.

I dropped onto the second step and wiped my hands on my snow pants. And then I saw it, above me in the cement-block wall: a small, grimy window almost completely boarded over. A window with just a small sliver of light showing. For a moment it felt like I had two Slinkys for knees.

I grabbed Owen and hugged him in relief, a tad too hard, and he squeaked his objection. "I'm sorry," I said. "But there's a window. We can get out of here."

I scrambled up the steps and got the flashlight from where I'd left it and grabbed my jacket, too, because I was cold.

I shone the light on the window. The small bit of gla.s.s I could see was black with encrusted dirt. Weathered gray boards had been nailed over the top of the window into the frame.

When I stood on tiptoe I could get a grip on the top length of wood. I pulled with every bit of strength I had, but it didn't so much as wiggle. I tried the board below it, but it was nailed tightly, as well. My right foot slid out from under me and I lost my balance and banged my leg against the steps.

I sank to the bas.e.m.e.nt floor. Tears filled my eyes. I held on to my leg, rocking from side to side for comfort. Owen climbed onto my lap and licked away one tear that had gotten out and rolled down my face.

I stroked his fur with one hand. "We're going to get out of here," I told him. "All we have to do is find something to pull off those boards."

I set him on the dirt, struggled to my feet and swiped away the tears. "Come on. There's got to be something."

Except there wasn't.

We looked in discarded boxes that were full of moldy paperbacks and old issues of National Geographic. There was a broken toaster and a tangle of cutlery.

I don't know when exactly I first smelled the smoke. It was faint, barely more than a hint, but as we got closer to the back corner of the bas.e.m.e.nt the odor was stronger.

Justin had set the cabin on fire.

I jammed half my hand in my mouth so I wouldn't scream, because I knew if I started I might not be able to stop. Owen went back to the stairs and I ran back, as well, trying to ignore how cold my feet were.

"We've got to get those boards off," I told him. I pulled frantically at them, but nothing happened. I kept yanking, splinters slicing into my hands.

I beat on the wood in frustration, my eyes burning again with unshed tears. Then I couldn't help it; I dropped to the dirt and let the tears run down my face. "I should've called Marcus," I whispered. "I should've told Maggie or Lita or someone I was coming here."

I kicked the bedsprings in anger and frustration. The frame slid across the dirt and one of the metal slats came loose from its spring, whipping into the air, the sound and movement sending me back against the stairs.

I looked at the window. I looked at the thin piece of metal. It was very flexible and very strong. Would it work? I had no other options.

I knelt on the cellar floor and grabbed the end of the slat. Twisting and pulling, I managed to get it free from the other spring. I took it over to the window. Stretching over my head, I eased the length of metal under the edge of the top board near where it was nailed and pulled up on the other end. The rough edge of the strip cut into my left hand.

This wasn't going to work.

Breathing hard, I leaned my forehead against the cement block wall. Think, think. I remembered Roma saying chocolate or duct tape could fix just about anything.

Roma's roll of duct tape was still in my jacket pocket. I pulled it out and tore off a long piece, winding it around the metal bar for a handgrip. Then I pulled with everything I had, Owen at my feet, seemingly cheering me on. The wood groaned. I ground my teeth together, braced one leg against the block wall and pulled. There was a splintering sound as the dry old wood gave way. I left it hanging by one nail and went to work on the second board.

"We are getting out of here," I told Owen through clenched teeth. "And the next time I see Justin . . ."

I channeled my fury into pulling, the muscles in my arms shaking.

The smell of smoke was getting stronger. I coughed, shook my head and pushed in the edge of my makes.h.i.+ft pry bar just a little bit more.

It was enough. The wood cracked and I was able to pull it loose the rest of the way with my hands.

"Yes!" I shouted, nearly out of breath. I made a small shooing motion to Owen. "Get up there a little bit." He moved up the stairs about halfway. I turned my head, put a forearm in front of my face and smashed the three small windowpanes with the metal bar, beating out the wooden dividers between the squares of gla.s.s.

There were needlelike slivers of gla.s.s everywhere. They cut into my feet through my heavy socks as I moved to the window. The icy air had never felt so good.

I used my sleeve to brush away the worst of the gla.s.s. Then I turned around and grabbed Owen. I reached through the window and set him in the snow outside, grateful that it had drifted away from the house on that side of the cabin.

"Go," I said. I pointed toward the trees at the far end of the open yard. He crouched down and looked back through the window.

I coughed again. There was way more smoke coming down through the floorboards now. I put my face close to Owen's. "Go. I'm right behind you, I swear. Please go."

I think he heard the urgency in my voice. He started across the snow. I braced my palms on the window ledge and tried to pull myself up. Bits of gla.s.s cut into my hands and the gash in my left palm began to bleed. I didn't have time to do anything about that. I had to get out while I could.

"Keep going," I called to Owen, who looked back at me. "I'm coming."

On the third try I got up on the window ledge. I stuck my head and shoulders out through the window. I could see Owen almost to the cleared parking area. At least he was safe. I stretched my arms out over the snow and try to move forward, but I couldn't.

I couldn't get through.

I clawed at the frozen snow, but I couldn't get a grip on anything. I twisted and kicked my feet, but the window was just too narrow.

I pushed myself back in and dropped to the floor. I could see the smoke now, swirling in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Panic warred with anger, and anger won.

"I am not going to die in this place," I yelled.

I hauled off my coat and peeled away my snow pants, tearing the b.u.t.ton at the waist. I folded the papers from Agatha's envelope as small as I could and jammed them into my bra. Off came my sweater and my long underwear. I was down to tights, a T-s.h.i.+rt, underwear and my heavy socks.

I braced my hands on the windowsill and pushed myself up. I dug my hands into the frozen snow. My feet kicked. I blew out every last bit of air and sucked in my stomach, and I started to move.

I didn't think about my hands or the cold. I pulled and I scrambled and I flailed, and in some miracle of physics my hips pulled loose from the window and I was free.

I half ran, half fell over the snow. The icy crust cut through my tights. I kept going, scrambling for purchase on the snow.

I was almost at the tree line when the propane tank blew up.

The impact propelled me into the brush. I wrapped my hands over my head as branches whipped my upper body. I landed flat on my back in a pile of snow, under a tree, coc.o.o.ned in silence.

There was truly no sound, not so much as a rustle of pine needles. I pushed up on my elbows. Where was Owen? I couldn't see him.

The cabin was a ball of fire and smoke. And then I caught sight of Owen coming toward me, bits of tree bark and snow crystals clinging to his fur, meowing his anger all the way. I lay there in the snow, trying to catch my breath. The cat climbed up onto my chest and licked my face.

I blinked away tears and grinned at him. "We did it," I said. The cut on my hand was still bleeding. Looking at it made me dizzy. So I didn't look. I could see blood soaking through both socks and there wasn't anything I could do about that, either.

Shaking with cold, I got to my feet, holding Owen against me with my good hand.